


The Poison Called Jealousy

by LainellaFay



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Body Shaming, Father/Son Incest, Jealous Legolas, Legolas is not a good role model, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Unrequited Love, some violent thoughts
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-06-02
Updated: 2016-01-26
Packaged: 2018-04-02 12:34:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,774
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4060222
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LainellaFay/pseuds/LainellaFay
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Thranduil Oropherion meets Bard Bowman on a business trip and the relationship between father and son gets complicated when Legolas feels threatened by Bard's entrance into his father's life.</p><p>  <i>“Legolas nearly didn’t recognise the man who stepped through the front door. It wasn’t a matter of a change in physical appearance, no, Thranduil was the same as always—impeccably dressed, hair still the same silvery-blond, ridiculously large sunglasses that when donned on his face didn’t seem at all ridiculous—but Legolas </i>knew, <i>he</i> knew <i>that his father returned a different man.”</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> **Disclaimer: I do not own The Hobbit / Lord of the Rings**  
>   
> 
> Wasn't going to post this until I finished, but then again, I planned it to be a one-shot but things happened and now I have decided to split it into a few chapters. Exams in less than a week and I'm churning out more fics than ever. I am trash. Also trash for shipping Thrandolas so hard, but how can I help it?
> 
> I have a [Tumblr](http://lainellafay.tumblr.com/) if anyone's interested and wish to contact me. (Probably no one but I'll just self-promote anyway, because like I said, I'm trash.) Woe is me.
> 
> Oh, right, last note - HEADCANON: Sindarin is a dialect from the Elves' hometown whenever it's a Modern AU.

.

.

.

 

Dark navy blue fabric on pale white skin, ever-groomed silver-blond strands cascading down his back, long slender fingers adjusting the straps of his white watch; his father was the epitome of beauty and grace. Legolas perched on the kitchen counter, pearly white teeth bit into the apple in his grasp and swung his legs back and forth like a child whose feet still dangled in a chair.

“I can accompany you to the airport,” the nineteen-year-old offered.

His words stalled the elder’s actions. Thranduil glanced up, slowly, unhurried, to look at his son. Face as flawless as a doll—and many would agree with the unrivalled beauty and remarkable aura of calmness that naturally radiated from the Oropherion family—his father shot him down with a shake of his head, “You have far more important affairs to attend to for such precious time to be wasted by a trip to the airport and back.”

“I don’t have lessons till tomorrow morning,” Legolas objected.

“Indeed. You have lessons tomorrow,” Thranduil pointed out, gaze already shifting from his son to return to his initial objective. “I will not have your performance slip due to lack of sleep.” 

“But, _Ad_ —“

“Enough of that, Legolas.”

The younger blond set his jaw, chewing on his apple with much more vengeance. His father adjusted his cufflinks and bent over the small branded suitcase to check on his belongings. As if noticing the tension in the air, and the simmering anger in his son, Thranduil sighed and straightened. Opening his arms, he beckoned his son towards him, and as always— _always_ —Legolas complied. Legolas leaned into his father’s embrace and smiled, softly, gently, happily, enjoying the feel of his father’s strong, lean arms around his frame and the scent that told Legolas of the upcoming autumn days and that was just so _him_.

He was going to miss this.

As he thought those words, his fingers involuntarily tightened their grip on his father’s shirt, definitely resulting in creases his father painstakingly ironed away the day before, but he didn't care. A hand stroke his head, fingers running through his blond hair—very much like his father’s, although lacking the silveriness that made others take a second glance at the unique shade. Legolas sighed in content.

“Do well, my son. Make your mother proud.”

Legolas reluctantly pulled away—not fully, hands resting on his father’s slim waist; a trait of the Oropherions—lithe, lean, yet _strong_ —and smiled up at his father. “I always make _both_ of you proud.” 

Pride seemed to shine in Thranduil’s eyes and Legolas couldn’t be happier. “That you do, my son. That you do.” Taking a step back, Thranduil pulled out his mobile to look at a recent message. “It’s time. Galion’s in the driveway.”

“I’ll miss you, _Ada_.”

With a tilt of his head and a soft, loving smile as a farewell, Thranduil pulled his suitcase behind him and strode out of the door. Legolas watched the car sail down the road until it could no longer be seen.

 

.~.

 

“ _Ada_? I prepared—“

_“Something came up, Legolas. I’m sorry, I’m going to be here for a few more days.”_

“What? Why?”

_“I don’t have time to explain, son. I’ll see you when I return.”_

“ _Ada_ —“

 

.~.

 

Legolas nearly didn’t recognise the man who stepped through the front door. It wasn’t a matter of a change in physical appearance, no, Thranduil was the same as always—impeccably dressed, hair still the same silvery-blond, ridiculously large sunglasses that when donned on his face didn’t seem at all ridiculous—but Legolas _knew_ , he _knew_ that his father returned a different man.

“ _Ada_ , what was the delay?”

His father smiled, all shark-teethed and free—Legolas couldn’t help the widening of his eyes. “A new potential, my son. Still very rough around the edges, but never to fear, for she is still very young and with proper grooming her talent will shine on screens! You know how bothersome under-aged potentials are; the procedures with parents and all.” His father flippantly waved a hand, the other removing his the shades from his face, revealing eyes the colour of the sky. “I had to spend the last few days writing up contracts and explaining all the details to her father—they’re not at all knowledgeable about our industry so it was a _lot_ of explaining indeed.”

Legolas felt his heart thumping in his chest, his chest much tighter, and it was hard to _breathe_.

“They’re moving over here for the girl’s training in a few months.” Then, suddenly falling into deep thought, Thranduil’s eyes glazed over as his head fell into its natural tilt—towards the left. When he returned from his thoughts to look at Legolas, standing stiffly still beside the luxurious couch, he said, “Perhaps you ought to join her in her lessons. Heaven knows your acting needs improvement.”

Legolas’s breath hitched. “My primary talent is dance, _Ada_. Singing as my secondary. You never demanded for—“

“That’s going to change, son,” Thranduil dismissed whatever argument Legolas tried to form. “How far do you think you can go without improving yourself?”

Legolas tensed, the air going still with silence. Releasing a huge sigh, Thranduil strode towards Legolas and leant down to press a kiss on his crown.

“Legolas, you know I’m proud of your achievements, but you have the potential to be greater. I can see it in you.”

“Yes, _Ada_.”

“I won’t let you suffer the embarrassment of sharing lessons with a six-year-old, have no fear. I’m not punishing you. I will request for Elrohir and Elladan to mentor you; it’s all good amongst friends, yes?”

“Yes, _Ada_.” 

“That’s my boy.” Thranduil tangled his fingers in his son’s hair, chuckling softly at how easily it was to get his fingers trapped in the mess. “ _This_ is not typical of my son. Whatever was the rush?”

Legolas flushed red, bowing his head down. “I received the notice that you would be returning whilst I was in bed, I hadn’t the time to brush my hair.”

“I missed you too, _ion nín_. Now up you go and tame it. There are calls I must make.”

 

.~.

 

The first thing Legolas noticed about his father ever since _‘The Trip’_ —he had to capitalise it, for Thranduil had made multiple business trips before and never returned _different_ —was the drastic increase in the amount of time Thranduil spent smiling at his mobile screen.

It was odd, to say the least.

In Legolas’s experiences, his father more often than not screamed and yelled and snarled into his mobile. Ever since his observation, Legolas had felt the sharp sting in his heart every time the smile appeared on his father’s face—a smile that usually appeared solely for _him_.

Legolas spent the next few weeks wondering who _‘Bard’_ was and hating the individual a little bit more every day.

 

.~.

 

It wasn’t that he didn’t want his father to be happy. No, he _wished_ for his father to be happy. 

He hated it because it wasn’t because of _him_.

 

.~.

 

Elladan had Elrohir in a headlock as the twins wrestled playfully over the last raisin cupcake. Legolas sprawled on the armchair in the lounge and laughed at their antics, none the least discreetly savouring the taste of the cupcake they were fighting over. They were in the midst of a short break from Legolas’s acting lessons after the twins finally graced his performance with a mere _“satisfactory”_.

His father’s voice trickled into Legolas’s sharp ears and he smiled, hiding it with the cupcake. Upon seeing the twin’s horrific expressions at the death of their cupcake, Legolas quickly gobbled the last bit up and grinned cheekily at the two. His father’s voice got nearer and nearer, to the point where footsteps rang loud and clear on the marble tiles.

Raising his hands up in surrender, for Elladan was resembling an angered lion, Legolas waited for the moment his father would turn around the corner, brain whirling for excuses to drag Thranduil into the mini-war about to be waged between the three friends; of course, his father would be on his side to save him from the savage twins. 

But to his disappointment, when his father did turn around the corner, he was too deep into his conversation to spare a second glance at the trio, only pausing for a few seconds to berate Legolas for his atrocious posture: _“Sit up straight, Legolas. That’s not how one of mine should sit.”_

Legolas failed to comply to his father’s command— _failed!_ —for he was too busy staring at the shaggy dark-haired man who held the attention of his father, who in turn, was half gaping at the sight of three rising stars in the entertainment industry, and half conversing with Thranduil.

At the sight of his father’s soft gaze on the other man, Legolas felt his breath sucked away from his body, his heart sinking to the bottom of his stomach, and he _knew_.

 

 

.~.

 

Rage festered from within his soul.

 

.~.

 

Legolas clutched onto his father’s dress shirt, burying his nose into the smooth fabric and curled up to the heat of his father’s body. His father patted his head, like he was a child once more, murmuring calmly into Legolas’s ear, “Calm, _ion nín_ , hush now. _Ada_ is here.”

Legolas clung on tighter, his knuckles turning white, as if that small action would keep his father grounded—anchored to him. He wanted to wrap his father up in chains, lock him up, and throw away the keys, never letting him go.

He didn’t want to lose his father; not to _Bard_ , not to _anyone_.

 

.~.

 

Tilda Bowman, a pretty little thing, was introduced to the company. Legolas gritted his teeth as the rest of the company fawned and cooed over the child; they haven’t had much opportunity to interact with children below the age of ten in the agency—Legolas being the youngest they had and now, at the age of nineteen, he was no longer a child they could smother with hugs and kisses.

“I have personally witnessed her potential on the stage,” Thranduil announced. Gesturing to Elrond, he continued, “Perhaps you can extend that to behind the cameras as well. She will be under your charge, Elrond.”

Elrond nodded curtly towards his father, but his features softened into a smile as the man took a onceover of the petite girl.

Legolas bit his bottom lip, still clear-headed enough to be careful not to draw blood, his body as tense as a wound up coil. That family. They were stealing everything. From father to daughter. Did they not have enough? Wasn’t the offer his father extended to their _pathetic little household_ enough? What more do they want?

When Tilda turned to smile at everyone, one by one, the moment her gaze landed on Legolas, she only received a cold, emotionless stare in return.

He wasn’t going to let anything fall into their wretched palms.

 

 

.~.

 

Legolas adjusted his shades as he leant against the stone cold pillar, feet crossed at the ankles. His recognisable blond hair half hidden by a green knitted beanie, the end tied in an elegant braid and dressed in the latest styles. Glancing at his wrist watch, Legolas cursed under his breath. He had been waiting for Aragorn for over an hour now, and so far, he had been lucky not to be recognised by the stream of people heading in and out of the station but he didn’t want to push his luck by lingering in the same spot any longer.

Deftly pulling his mobile out of his back pocket, Legolas tapped furiously on his screen as he briskly strode away from his previous location. His mobile vibrated with a returning message and Legolas’s eyes scanned the words before rolling them. 

Trust Aragorn to still be in bed at two in the afternoon.

Stepping out onto the streets, Legolas hailed a taxi and rattled an address to the driver. They made their way to the destination in record time and the blond fiddled with his scarf as he shivered in the cold breeze. Legolas entered the apartment building and was greeted with a polite—too polite and forced to be friendly despite the training these doormen were probably forced through—hello which Legolas returned with his own, a false smile plastered on his face, before quickly escaping by entering the elevator and pressing the button to the penthouse. 

Impatiently tapping his shoe against the shiny tiles, Legolas waited for his _dear_ friend to open the door. In the meantime, he removed his sunglasses, hooking it on the front of his shirt, and beanie, pulling the hair tie out, letting his hair flow freely. He shook his head a few times for the strands to unravel and ran his fingers through them, smoothing the curls that popped up from being in a braid for long periods of time.

“You piece of lazy bum,” Legolas huffed irritably, when Aragorn _finally_ decided to show his face. Surveying the man from top to bottom, he said, “You look terrible.”

Aragorn ushered him into the apartment before replying with a grunt.

“Girlfriend issues.”

Another grunt.

“Whose fault was it?”

Yet another grunt.

Legolas narrowed his eyes as he glared at the walking grunting zombie that was his friend. Dumping his coat on the coat hanger, Legolas peeled off his boots and stepped onto the wooden floorboards, making his way towards the large cream-coloured armchair and plopped down onto it, arms and legs draping everywhere—how his father would fume.

But as Legolas remembered, his father did the same.

“What was it about?”

A groan this time.

Legolas raised an eyebrow, took the offered juice and reclined back. “You know, all this can be avoided if you’re not in a relationship.”

“You’re going to die alone and miserable.”

“The zombie finally awakens!” Legolas cheered mockingly. He raised the glass and took a sip, letting the juice swirl around in his mouth like he would do to a mouthful of wine, falling into a pensive mood. “I won’t be alone,” he replied, after swallowing. “I have my father.”

As he took another sip, Legolas felt Aragorn’s eyes accessing him. He ignored it, having felt the scrutiny more than once before. “Your father…” Aragorn dragged the words out. “You have an unhealthy obsession with your father.”

“I do not.”

Aragorn shrugged, lying down on the couch opposite Legolas. He rested his head on his arms as his feet, being too tall to comfortably fit on the length of the couch, crossed at the ankles, just dangling over the armrest. “It’s been going on for years, I know you, Legolas.”

“Your mind is ailed by your grief, you don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“And you’re living in denial.” Aragorn let his eyes fall shut. “Well, I’ll be here when you figure it out. Thranduil won’t be by your side forever.”

Legolas felt his hand jolt at the sentence, some juice spilling over the sides and onto his clothes. He swore, and shot a glare at Aragorn who chuckled at his misfortune. “That won’t happen,” Legolas insisted.

Aragorn lazily opened an eyelid, his gaze probing the blond. “Alright.”

“On the other hand, about something that _actually_ _happened_. What happened with Arwen? Do I have to dispatch the twins onto you?”

Aragorn groaned and Legolas laughed.

 

.~.

 

They lingered outside the studio. Legolas hooked his right ankle over his left as he leaned languidly against the wall, idly scrolling through the news on his mobile. The twins had their noses pressed against the small glass panel that stretched down vertically on the studio door, peeking into the room.

Despite his carefree demeanour, Legolas was seething within; outraged at the attention his _friends_ lavished onto that—that _witch-child_! Curse upon the entire family.

“—do you think? _Ada_ says she’s a fast learner. He’s never been so impressed in _ages_!”

Legolas snapped out of his irate thoughts, cocking his head towards Elladan questioningly. The actor frowned and Legolas shook any upcoming questions about his inattentiveness away. Elladan retained his frown but obliged to Legolas’s silent request and repeated his question: “What do you think of Tilda?”

The blond had to bite his tongue to still the snide remark that willed to leave the secrecy within his lips. He smiled serenely instead, making a performance of pondering over the question. “She…can go far,” he said. It was no lie, for like his father, he did see her potential. It had hurt to see it, and even more to admit it.

He’d rather see her crumble to pieces.

Elladan rolled his eyes, jabbing his twin with his elbow in order to regain his spot at the door. Legolas was once again left to his own devices. Excited and _proud_ murmurs were exchanged between the twins.

Yes, he’d rather see her fall to ruins.

 

.~.

 

He went over to Aragorn’s immediately after his last lesson that day.

It didn’t matter that the sun still shone brightly in the autumn sky; they clinked bottles and drank until the room spun in their eyes. Aragorn celebrated the reparation of his relationship while Legolas…

He drank because he felt like it— _yearned_ for it, _needed_ it to quell the maddening flames deep within. Aragorn didn’t ask. Legolas didn’t share; he didn’t know _how_.

They cracked jokes, bringing up old memories. They laughed until their stomach ached. They played games only drunks dared to and would do. They drank till the sun disappeared beyond the horizons.

They drank until Legolas felt _free_.

 

.~.

 

The euphoric mood Legolas took great pains to acquire faded immediately into dust the moment he stepped through the front door. The shades covering his eyes did naught to save them from the sheer horror before him. The haze fogging his inebriated mind did naught to help him overlook the cluster of unfamiliar shoes on the wooden boards, and the man trailing a finger along the spines of his father’s book collection at the other end of the long hallway. 

“Legolas?” He heard his father call out from the direction of the lounge but his eyes are stuck, _glued_ even, to the unwelcomed soul lingering in his home. “Come here, son.”

The dark haired man turned then, a shy smile graced his features as he lowered his head slightly in greeting.

The force in which Legolas grinded his teeth together was tremendous. He would later be surprised yet thankful that his teeth were strong enough to avoid being chipped. His blue eyes narrowed behind dark lenses and he gave a feral snarl, “What the _fuck_ are _you_ doing in _my_ house?”

The ferociousness of his words bounced off the walls, echoing down the length of the hall. The man— _Bard_ —recoiled, hitting his shoulder blades against the bookshelf, eyes wide in shock. Legolas took a threatening step forwards, bracing himself with a palm against the wall; a sign of weakness, but Legolas would rather that than over falling over in his intoxicated state. A growl left his lips. He was about to issue another command when his father strode into the hallway, displeasure and also astonishment evident on his face.

Thranduil surveyed him briefly, taking in the shades Legolas wore in the middle of the night, the tousled hair, rumpled clothes, and the strong scent of booze on his skin. Disappointment radiated from his father, cutting deep into Legolas with nothing but her presence.

“You will apologise, Legolas.”

The teenager shook in a fit of rage, fingers scratching into the paint on the walls. It’s _his_ fault. _His_ fault. It’s—Legolas’s eyes widened, taking in the sight of three other figures huddled behind his father, using Thranduil as a shield. The resemblance was strong, there was no denying their relation.

_Their_ fault. It’s all _their_ fault; they had weaselled into his life, corrupting his friends, his _father_ with their sweet words and charming smiles.

No more.

“ _Get out_.” The blue of his eyes were identical to shards of ice; cold, and deadly. Effects albeit hindered by shades, the immense _hatred_ in his words shook their bodies to the core. _“Get out,”_ he repeated at the still figures. “Get out, get out, get out!”

His index finger snapped into the direction of the front door, his arm trembling as he tried to keep himself together. His entire weight rested against the wall, his eyes fixed on the people before him; his father, the three children, and _Bard_.

The man was the first to snap out of his shock, immediately herding his _spawns_ out. Legolas’s attention was solely fixed onto his father then, and father and son stared at each other; one in disbelief and the other resentful yet sorrowful.

The air is still.

Bard made the mistake of placing his hand on Thranduil’s arm and Legolas felt his anger reach another spike. He lunged, smacking Bard’s violating hand away. That seemingly dragged Thranduil out of his trance and his father grabbed him by the waist, restraining the berserk blond. 

He was growling ferociously; a beast out of control. 

Legolas barely registered the words exchanged between his father and the other man. It wasn’t until the door clicked shut, and there wasn’t anyone else but him and his father did he slump back against his father’s chest.

The scent of his father enveloped him, taking over his senses. He can detect the puzzlement, disappointment, and mortification his father felt.

A strangled sob emerges from his throat and he spun in the tight circle of his father’s arms, grabbing onto his father wildly. He cried into his father’s chest until he passed out.

 

.~.

 

Thranduil did not interrogate him the next morning.

Breakfast was laid on the kitchen bench top as per normal, but his father’s usual presence was missing.

Legolas nursed his hangover all alone—alone and miserable.

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Special thanks to [NightHerald](https://archiveofourown.org/users/NightHerald) for beta'ing~

.

.

.

Two weeks. Two slow, agonising weeks crawled by. His father had been giving him the cold shoulder for two weeks now.

Legolas felt unsettled. Fearful, even. In his nineteen years of life, not once had his father ignored him like he was nothing more than trash on the street. His attempts to reconcile with his father proved futile; Thranduil stuck true to his resolve and looked the other way whenever Legolas tried to approach. Legolas felt oddly hollow.

“Again,” Galadriel commanded. A frown settled on her other-worldly features as her eyes tracked his every move. Legolas sensed the now rather familiar presence of disappointment radiating from his teacher—the second person he had respected and disappointed in the past few weeks, Legolas despaired.

Legolas took several deep breaths in an attempt to calm his bothered mind. He raised his arms and, in time to the beat, started his movements. He tried to wipe the thoughts about his father away, to think about naught but his motion, the steps, the beat, the flow and grace he was to present on the stage.

“Stop.”

Legolas stumbled, the loud _thump_ of his bare sole hitting the wooden dance floor stroke a discordant note in the refined dance studio. He quickly caught his bearings and spun around to question his teacher, who only pointed at the starting point of his routine with a stern expression. Legolas padded across the length of the room, breathed, raised his arms and started again.

The process repeated itself several times over; stop, repeat, stop, repeat, stop, repeat.

Legolas began to tire, both physically and mentally—his mind ever so unrested with thoughts of his fractured relationship with his father. He spun, arms stretching wide, and his nimble feet stumbled. He was sent sprawling onto the floor, panting heavily and eyes wide with shock. He didn’t move to stand, but stayed in a heap on the ground. The music was killed and Legolas heard soft footsteps heading towards him. He hung his head in shame and bit his tongue.

“Up,” Galadriel said, her voice melodic yet instilling obedience. Legolas pressed his palms against the floor. One, two seconds, he pushed himself up. He dared not look at his instructor’s face. “Shake out your limbs. Slowly.” He did. “Any injuries?”

Legolas shook his head. He was lucky, that fall could have easily twisted his ankle. Galadriel must not have been convinced, for he suddenly felt a cold touch on his ankle and nearly jumped three feet in the air.

“You got off lucky.” She voiced his thoughts. Galadriel placed a finger underneath his chin and tilted his head up, forcing eye contact. “Deal with whatever ails your mind. This session is concluding early; I will inform your father about this.”

Fear took dominance in his thoughts and Legolas ripped himself away from his dance instructor. “No!” he exclaimed, shaking his head ferociously. “Please, don’t.”

She frowned, her hand falling limply down to her side. “I must, Legolas. Thranduil has placed the strictest instructions upon us to inform him about your progress.” A sharp stare shut him up. “Now go, don’t forget to stretch. I do not wish to see such appalling performance from you again; one may think you’re a stomping two-legged elephant.”

 

.~.

 

Water rained down on him. Legolas breathed heavily, staring at the swirl of soap and water escaping down the drain.

He swung his fist against the shower tiles.

 

.~.

 

“ _Ada_ ,” Legolas implored. “Please, _Ada_ , forgive me.”

Stormy blue eyes regarded him. Legolas’s heart jumped and his breath was sucked out of his body. Twenty-three days. Twenty-three days too long since his father had looked at him; it didn’t matter to Legolas in which way or form his father did, it simply mattered that he _did_. Thranduil’s thin lips parted and Legolas rejoiced inwardly as his father’s voice resonated in his eardrums.

“You have come to your senses then?”

His boots suddenly became of much interest, and Legolas pleaded, “Yes, I’m sorry, I should not have done that. I have realised my misdeeds. I have, _Ada_ , many, many days ago. Please, forgive me. Do not turn your back on me again, _please_ , it _hurt_ , _Ada_ —it _burnt_. I beg your forgiveness.”

“Galadriel tells me you have been _unsettled_ in her classes lately.”

Shame coursed through his veins as Legolas hung his head down, shoulders slumping. His instructor had been losing patience with him, her face growing darker and darker with every session. He had failed to perform to her standards, not once, but several times, and it pained him to admit it. Now…now he had to hear the words from his father’s mouth.

“I’m sorry, _Ada_.”

How many more must he disappoint?

He didn’t move an inch. Like a statue he embedded himself onto the tiles, wishing they would open up and swallow him into their jaws, let him fall forever into the everlasting depths. Legolas did not know that he was crying until a slender finger wiped the tears away. Legolas involuntarily shivered and a short gasp emerged from his parted lips.

Cocooned within his father’s embrace, Legolas let his tears flow freely, releasing weeks worth of agony. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” he mumbled into soft fabric, which was now slowly getting soaked.

“I should not have treated you such, _ion nín_. I apologise.”

The soft, fluttering kiss that Legolas felt on his crown was not his imagination. He swore on it.

“I love you,” Legolas muttered. He poured his heart and soul out into those words, but they never seemed to be able to reflect the exact amount of affection he felt for his father.

No, there were no words in the world that could.

 

.~.

 

Bard stood on the edge of the porch.

Legolas couldn’t help the frown that graced his features, one he quickly vanished as he approached, instilling in place the emotionless mask he wore towards acquaintances bordering on disfavour. “Mr. Bowman,” he greeted, an edge of hostility in his tone.

Bard took a few steps back, visibly startled by Legolas’s apparently sudden arrival in his state of inattentiveness. “Le—Legolas.”

“I apologise for my behaviour the last time we met. It was rude of me. I’m sorry.”

“No, no. It’s fine,” Bard said, waving his hands in the air. “It is the influence of alcohol, I’m certain.”

Legolas pursed his lips but graced the statement no reply. Instead, he asked, “What brings you to my home?”

The man scratched his head. “Ah…it’s nothing, I thought Thranduil would be in...just a few questions to ask about Tilda’s—I’ve rang the doorbell a few times, and was just about to leave.” Legolas narrowed his eyes. _Liar,_ his mind hissed, for he remembered seeing the father of three standing mutely on the porch, with no sign of any intention to leave. Bard continued to prattle on, unaware of Legolas’s darkening mood. “Although, I’m a tad worried, he told me he would be home at this time a few days back. He’s not picking up his phone either… I don’t suppose you know of his whereabouts?”

“No, I know not,” Legolas lied expertly, his face showing no signs of the act. “My father is a busy man.”

“Yes, I am aware.” Bard furrowed his eyebrows. With a shake of his head, the man said, “Well, I best be on my way. If you don’t mind…?”

“It’s no problem,” Legolas said, smiling sweetly. He watched Bard step away from the porch, watched the man climb into his dingy old vehicle, and continued to watch until the car drove out of sight. With a scoff, Legolas stuck his keys into the lock and entered the house. He shut the door behind him and peeled off his coat, hanging it on the coat rack. Padding up the steps, Legolas stopped outside the door to his father’s soundproof workspace and knocked, purely for politeness, before entering.

Thranduil was draped across two large beanbags, remote held in a limp grip in one hand, and a pen in the other as he scribbled on the notepad balanced on his stomach. The room was dimly lit. Dark curtains shielded the windows, preventing sun rays from entering, and Legolas had to turn away from the bright glow of the television screen.

“ _Ada_.”

Thranduil thumbed the pause button and twisted to face his son. “Legolas, I did not notice your arrival. What is the time?”

“A little past four,” Legolas answered, going around the small round table and towards the beanbags where his father lay. “How was your day?”

Thranduil released the pen and reached for Legolas’s hands, eliciting a smile from him. “Tiring,” his father responded. Legolas slid his hands up his father’s arms and up to his shoulders, massaging skilfully. A tingle run up his spine at the blissful moan Thranduil released, and he watched snow blond eyelashes flutter as eyelids shut. “Your touch is ever so restorative, my son. Thank you.”

“I live to please you, _Ada_.”

“Legolas?” Legolas hummed in response. “I don’t suppose you saw anyone when you returned?”

“No.”

Thranduil hummed and nodded slowly. “I had thought…no, never mind.”

“No one was here, father,” Legolas grimly stated, thumbs digging in harder. “No one.”

 

.~.

 

He stared down at the device lying innocently on the coffee table.

Legolas picked it up, and with a stony expression, cleared the call history.

 

.~.

 

“My little leaf! So proud, you make me so proud.” Thranduil beamed, teeth glinting under the sunlight. His arms were spread wide and Legolas rushed into them, breathing in the scent of autumn skies that lingered on his father’s frame. It always amazed Legolas how Thranduil changed with the seasons; winter brought the whiff of an evergreen tree, spring brought about fresh breezes, dirt, and blooming flowers, and summer of freshly cut grass and the sea.

“I did it?” he breathed. “I made it?”

“Yes,” his father answered, sharing his joy. The two crushed each other so tightly to themselves, if it was possible to mould into one, they would have. “This calls for a celebration, my son. Yes, it does.”

 

.~.

 

**[11:31am] _congrats bro!!!!_**

**[11:31am] _heading on your way to becoming the dancing prince_**

**[11:32am] _so proud of you_**

**[11:32am] _gimme your autographs_**

**[11:32am] _will sell them_**

**[11:33am] _earn myself some extra $$_**

**[2:05pm]** _Thanks._

 **[2:05pm]** _Father’s hosting a small party, you should come._

**[2:06pm] _whens it_**

**[2:06pm]** _Next Friday._

**[2:07pm] _nah man_**

**[2:07pm] _cant_**

**[2:07pm] _arwen told me_**

**[2:08pm] _to keep it free_**

**[2:08pm]** _She’ll be there._

**[2:09pm] _so youre saying_**

**[2:09pm] _im her +1???_**

**[2:09pm] _am i not worthy of an invite???_**

**[2:09pm]** _Perhaps ;)_

**[2:10pm] _will_**

**[2:10pm] _kill_**

**[2:10pm] _you_**

****

.~.

 

“Isn’t this the whole bloody company? Your father’s definition of ‘small’ comes not from _my_ dictionary, my friend.”

Legolas laughed, a melody twinkling like wind-chimes in the breeze. “Your world is too small.”

“Says _you_.”

“Indeed, says _me_ ,” Legolas drawled. “Why aren’t you lapping after Arwen like a dog?”

Aragorn’s expression showed he took offence to the statement, although Legolas saw through the act and his smirk enlarged.

“Why aren’t _you_ sticking onto your father like a leech?” Aragorn retorted and Legolas’s smirk fell within a split second. The two friends engaged in a glaring contest until Aragorn broke the silence and piped, “Truce.”

“Truce.”

They sealed it with a firm handshake and grim smiles. Like men. Manly men. A waiter walked past with a tray and Legolas deftly plucked two flutes of champagne from the tray. Aragorn stared at him like he had grown a second head and Legolas furrowed his eyebrows.

“What?”

“Planning on getting drunk tonight?” Aragorn nodded towards the champagne. “I’m sure there’s a less expensive way.”

“Har-har, very funny,” Legolas said with a roll of his eyes. He held one flute out in front of him and continued, “For you, Arwen’s _plus one_.”

“We have a truce!”

Legolas laughed and took a sip, eyes glancing around the room and stopping on the willowy figure surrounded by many. He smiled around the rim of the glass—a smile which vanished the moment Celeborn stepped to the side and revealed four very much unwanted guests. Legolas felt a surge of fury and his eyes narrowed into slits.

“—og and Elrohir wanted _me_ to keep it as a fucking _pet_ and you know how I live in a penthouse and that building has a ‘no pets allowed’ regulation so I was absolutely adamant about—“

“Excuse me,” Legolas muttered, interrupting his friend mid-sentence. He didn’t hesitate for a moment before stepping away, nor did he look behind his shoulder to see Aragorn’s puzzled expression that slowly turned into grim realisation. Legolas’s attention was fixed only to a singular point as he gracefully made his way through the crowd, half-empty flute of champagne quivering in his grip—a grip so tight there was a fear of the glass breaking.

He stopped behind the devil and its spawns, internally grimacing at the utter giddiness and excitement that radiated from them.

“ _Ada_ ,” he said, without the slightest bit of care that he had rudely barged into the conversation. Five pairs of eyes landed upon him and he smiled apologetically, avoiding the gaze of four and holding only onto the one he was so familiar with. “I’m afraid there’s been an emergency.” The words flowed right out of his mouth like water. “Please, follow me.”

Thranduil’s eyebrows rose to his hairline as the words sunk in. He turned and nodded towards the _intruders,_ and Legolas spun on his heels, speeding away. The knowledge that that his father was sure to follow him driving him forward. He would. Legolas clamped his jaw. He will. He didn’t stop until he reached a quiet, secluded corridor, far away from the hustle and bustle in the great function room.

“Legolas, what is the meaning of this?” Thranduil demanded, folding his arms across his chest. It was obvious to anyone that the ‘emergency’ Legolas spoke of was nowhere in existence. “What did you bring me here for? We have guests to entertain.”

Legolas chewed on his bottom lip. His arm darted out in a pale blur to wrap long fingers around his father’s wrist. His father did not offer any resistance as Legolas turned his hand, so that his palm faced upwards. Legolas stared at the lines diviners supposedly used to foretell the future. He ran a finger down the heart line, pausing at intervals, and wondered how much of the length he existed in. He reached the end and they stood, unmoving, just two figures breathing in the silent space. Legolas slowly tilted his head up. His father, patient yet burning with curiosity, stared down at his form.

“Can I not wish to thank you for everything you’ve done for me?” Legolas commented, a faint smile touching the corners of his lips.

“You could have done so at home. I was in the middle of a conversation.”

Legolas ground his teeth at his father’s words. Thranduil narrowed his eyes briefly and grabbed Legolas by the chin.

“Stop that,” he ordered. “It’s bad for your teeth.” Eyeing Legolas closely, Thranduil slowly released his hold and took a step back, pulling his hand out of Legolas’s grasp in the process. Legolas’s empty fingers twitched in the air as they followed Thranduil’s slightly. “You lied,” Thranduil said.

“I—I do not understand.”

“You proclaimed there was an emergency to bring me here.”

Legolas was quiet for a bit, before he raised a single eyebrow. “I said no lie,” he remarked, opening his palms before him. “I figured my lack of gratitude counted as an emergency.”

Thranduil huffed a sigh and shook his head. Legolas saw the tiniest curl of his father’s lips and grinned broadly. Thranduil placed a hand on his shoulder and ushered him forward, back towards the function room. “Come now. We have to return.” Squeezing down onto Legolas’s shoulder gently, Thranduil continued, “Do not interrupt my conversations like that again.”

Legolas wasn’t sure if his father sought for a response so he kept his lips tightly shut.

 

.~.

 

“You know, you’re supposed to look happy,” Aragorn commented between sips. “Not grumpily stalking your dear father with those scary eyes of yours.” Aragorn leant towards Legolas and followed his line of sight. “Is that little Tilda? The twins weren’t kidding! She’s a tiny baby doll.” Aragorn looked at Legolas from the corner of his eye and asked, “Why are you glaring at her?”

A muscle at the side of Legolas’s jaw twitched as he hissed out a reply, “Not her.” _Not exactly_.

Aragorn slowly nodded and pondered for a moment before his eyebrows rose to his hairline. “I see. Does it frustrate you?”

Legolas didn’t reply, his glare forming daggers that sliced through the air.

Aragorn reclined on his seat and raised a finger, grabbing another flute of champagne from a server. “See what I told you about that unhealthy obsession?”

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've realised how slow moving this plot is going haha...
> 
> Thanks again to my awesome beta, NightHerald!

.

.

.

 

“Alright.” Galadriel clapped her hands together. Legolas stood at attention in the middle of the dance studio. “We have four months till the performance that will make or break your career. Four months of constant practicing. Four months of pushing yourself to your limits. Four months to ensure a perfect performance. Put away all thoughts of celebration, we’ve already done that—extravagantly, may I add. Focus all your thoughts, energy, heart, and soul into these four months of practicing. Do you understand me?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Begin.”

 

.~.

 

Legolas slumped against the wall and toed his trainers off. He cricked his neck and rolled his shoulders. They drooped down in exhaustion when he bent to place his shoes onto the rack. Unable to find the energy to lift his bag from where it had fallen from his shoulders, Legolas resorted to dragging it down the hallway and up the stairs. He had just reached the landing when Thranduil walked out of his bedroom, an opened book in hand. 

“You’re back,” Thranduil said. He stuck a sturdy clothing tag, now converted into a bookmark, between the pages. The book clapped shut. Thranduil tucked the hardcover under his armpit and leant against the wooden edge of the door. “Your evening lessons are cancelled tomorrow. Come straight home after the class with Elrohir and Elladan.”

Legolas blinked himself awake. He let go of his bag strap and rubbed his tired eyes, eager to fill the tub and enjoy a nice, relaxing bubble bath for his sore muscles before retiring for the night. “What’s the occasion?”

“We’re having company over for dinner.”

“Company? Who?”

“The Bowman family,” his father curtly answered. Legolas’s hands dropped to his side at once. Thranduil wrinkled his nose at Legolas’s exhaustion. He waved his hand in the direction of Legolas’s bedroom and said, “Get some rest. You’re dead on your feet.” Then, as a second thought, he added, “Don’t forget.”

“Why?”

Thranduil looked bewildered for a split second. “What do you _mean_ wh—“

“Why are they coming?” Legolas cut his father off. “Why do you keep so much contact with _that_ family? You’ve _never_ done this with any other; Tom, Dick, or—“

“Legolas!” Thranduil barked. His eyes were narrowed in deadly slits. Legolas’s jaw snapped shut but his stance was defiant. “Enough! There will be no more of that talk. What I choose to do is my business. Do you understand?”

“Yes, father,” Legolas said through gritted teeth. He hung his head to give a yielding appearance, but inwardly, Legolas fumed. He knew he ought not to press his father’s buttons too much with that matter for fear of facing Thranduil’s disappointment again. “Excuse me,” he muttered instead, picking up his bag strap from the tiles and he hid himself away in the peace of his bedroom, but not before using energy he never thought he still had to stomp his feet across the few metre distance.

Not even his lovely bubble bath nor a glass of hot chocolate milk helped Legolas relax that night.

 

.~.

 

The devil’s oldest spawn, Sigrid, was to enter high school in a few months’ time. Legolas chomped angrily on a piece of asparagus and rolled his eyes when the middle spawn, Bain, grinned at him with a piece of spinach stuck between his two front teeth. Legolas gulped down a glass of water and wondered if he could get away with opening a bottle of wine right there and then.

He probably should. Legolas felt his lips curl into a sneer as he peeked at his father practically lapping up every single syllable spewed out of the devil’s mouth. Anything to stop _that_ horrid picture from continuing.

Legolas viciously stabbed at the steak and let a small victorious grin emerge at the startled jump Bard gave that made him stutter mid-speech. Thranduil looked at him from the corner of his eye and Legolas apologetically shrugged in response.

“—Rivendell High offers a good language program but they’re lacking in the sports department. I wish for Bain to enter the same school as Sigrid in two years time, so I’m really looking for one that will benefit both of them strongly. I’ve looked into Minas Tirith University—the High School Division of course—and Erebor—”

Thranduil grimaced at the mention of Erebor High. Bard, noticing his disgust, stopped his rambling and raised a questioning eyebrow.

“I have…complicated relations with certain alumni of Erebor High,” Thranduil explained. His tone indicated that he did not wish to elaborate further.

Thorin Oakenshield—Erebor High alummus, owner of Durin Talent Agency, rival to Thranduil’s own— had been what his father called _a pain in the ass_ throughout Thranduil’s career. Legolas thought of one of Oakenshield’s company, Gimli, and looked forward to competing with the hip-hop dancer once more. 

“Have you considered Greenwood Senior High?” Thranduil switched the subject, before sliding a neatly sliced bite of steak into his mouth. “It’s listed on the top three public schools in this area. They are quite well-known for the volleyball program. The music and arts programs aren’t all that bad either. They offer a large range of subjects; Sigrid will find no trouble choosing a career path over there in the future.” 

“Yes, of—“

Legolas droned out the devil’s voice and resumed stabbing at the steak. His father’s arm snaked out to still his movements after three rather aggressive jabs. Legolas bit his lip. Thranduil slowly released his wrist. Legolas poured himself another glass of water and carefully sliced a portion of steak.

“My son and I are alumni of Greenwood. Celeborn, the principal, is a personal friend of mine. I can assure you that he takes discipline very seriously, no cases of bullying go unpunished.” Thranduil smiled. 

“Oh, that’s reassuring,” Bard said. “I’ve heard of many troubling cases about Laketown Secondary; their principal doesn’t do squat.”

“Corruption in practice,” Thranduil smoothly said. “No such problems in Greenwood. If there ever should be,” Thranduil leant forwards with a mischievous glint in his eyes, “I’ll put Celeborn straight, no questions about that.”

Legolas felt the strong urge to hurl at his father’s obvious flirting. He didn’t. Instead, he kicked his leg under the table and struck the devil right in the shin. Bard dropped the cutlery with a _clang_ when he flinched in pain. Legolas put up an act—the embodiment of innocence—whilst silently thanking his father for forcing the twins onto him with those acting classes.

“My apologies, Mr. Bowman. Knee jerk effect—growth spurts, very sudden.”

While Bard appeared completely convinced, his father looked at him with the smallest frown—a silent warning message. Legolas faked puzzlement in response. He diverted his attention to his plate and bit into a broccoli with slight satisfaction. 

He could still feel the weight of his father’s gaze on him. It got heavier as Thranduil drawled, “Would you like a preview of Greenwood’s standards for yourself? Legolas still has his old textbooks tucked away in the storeroom. He wouldn’t mind lending them to you, I’m certain.”

Legolas’s fork stopped halfway on its path to his mouth. “The syllabus must have changed since then, _Ada_. It has been six years since I was in Year Eight.”

“Legolas.” Thranduil smiled dangerously. “I insist.”

Legolas slowly placed his fork down onto his plate. His hands curled into fists on the surface of the glass dining table. “May I not finish my meal first, _Ada_?" 

“Legolas.”

“Yes, _Ada_.” Legolas pushed his chair back. His body was as taut as a bowstring. “Excuse me,” he murmured. His mind whirled with disbelief. How could his father side with the devil over him—his own son? 

Legolas turned around the corner and overheard his father saying, “—don’t know what has gotten into him these past months. It’s as if all those years he skipped being a defiant child decided to show itself now.”

He halted, pressing himself against the wall. Eyes narrowed, Legolas listened.

“You must be exaggerating,” Bard said.

“As a parent, I’m at a loss. This is beyond me.” Legolas clenched his fists. He yearned to tell his father that all he wanted was for the evil to be vanquished from their lives. That was all. 

Legolas heard Bard chuckle. “If that’s the case, I am certainly not looking forwards to my brats’ teenage years,” the devil teased over the denials of his spawns. After ordering Tilda to finish her carrots, Bard asked, “Have you been spending enough time with your son?” 

“The same as always. Why do you ask?”

“You might like to try taking a little time off work and spend the day with him. He might be a little put out with the amount of time you spend on your job and helping others.”

The silence that lingered after Bard’s suggestion haunted Legolas up onto the clearing of the second floor. He made sure the slam of the storeroom door echoed all the way down the hall.

 

.~.

 

Thranduil shadowed his steps. Legolas didn’t know whether to feel outraged or pleased. It had been years since his father personally oversaw his lessons, having resorted to daily reports from his tutors.

The sight of Thranduil was always a welcomed pleasure, but the knowledge that his father was only driven there by the words of a vile mouth irked Legolas.

He silently packed his bag while Thranduil conversed with Tauriel, his vocal instructor. Shouldering his strap, Legolas lingered at the doorway. His father stepped out a minute later with a contented smile.

“You’re improving,” his father said. “Well done.”

“Thank you.” 

“Legolas.” He looked up. Thranduil’s eyes were uncertain. “Come with me.”

Legolas tilted his head to the side. He nodded and followed his father’s footsteps. The two slid into Thranduil’s Audi where Legolas fiddled with the radio, Thranduil started the engine and rested his hands on the steering wheel. Legolas, expecting Thranduil to reverse out of the parking lot, looked at his father with confusion when the car didn’t move.

“Are we not heading home?”

“Not if that isn’t your wish,” Thranduil replied. “I was thinking that we should have some fun today. Is there anywhere you wish to go?” 

_These are Bard’s words, aren’t they,_ Ada _?_ Legolas wanted to ask. He only barely managed to keep the words from coming out, remembering that he was not meant to know of the conversation between his father and that person. He spun a knob on the radio with a jerk, dragging the volume down to barely a whisper.

Wishing to spend every living minute he could with his father, yet also unwilling to give Thranduil the impression that Bard’s words had an effect, Legolas’s mind was in turmoil.

“The park we used to go to.” His heart controlled his lips, spewing the words out before he could think otherwise.

Thranduil lifted an eyebrow. “Is that all? We can go anywhere you want, _ion nín_. Do not hesitate.” 

“Please, _Ada_.”

“Alright.”

Thranduil set the car into drive and Legolas rested his head on his fist, watching the world go past through the window.

 

.~.

 

The scene was the same as always; tall pine trees towering over a pond with feeding ducks—serene, and beautiful. They sat on a bench overlooking the pond. Further in the distance, maple leaves fell from the branches, drifting in the occasional breeze. Legolas hummed under his breath; a familiar tune to both their ears.

“Your mother’s lullaby,” Thranduil said with a wistful smile. 

“ _Ada_ , do you love _Naneth_?”

“Of course I do.”

Legolas sucked in a breath and held it. “Who do you love more: _Naneth_ or me?”

There was tension in Thranduil’s brow as he faced Legolas. Thranduil wrapped his arm around Legolas’s shoulders and pulled him to his side. “Don’t be silly, Legolas. I love you _both_ equally—both very much.”

Legolas hid his face into the crook of his father’s neck and murmured, “I love you more than _Naneth_.”

He never was certain whether his father heard his confession.

 

.~.

 

Legolas paced the length of the lounge; up and down, past the fireplace, he walked. Fingers tapped anxiously on his upper arms. He regularly glanced up at the clock hanging on the wall and huffed as time continued to tick by. Seconds turned to minutes, and minutes turned to hours. Legolas ached to hear the tell-tale sound of a key unlocking the door.

He waited. And waited.

Far too quickly, the clock struck two in the wee hours. Legolas was as jittery as a June bug. He could not count how many times he had tried to call Thranduil, and found that the call was unable to connect. His messages weren’t being replied to either. 

Legolas was one second away from ripping his hair out. He pressed the heel of his palms to his eyes and focused on his breathing.

 

**[2:04am]** _Aragorn_

**[2:04am]** _Please_

**[2:04am]** _I don’t know what to do_

**[2:05am]** _I’m scared_

**[2:05am]** **_fuc kyou_** [1]

**[2:05am] _yoy wike mwup_** [2]

**[2:06am]** _My father isn’t home yet. He isn’t answering my calls nor my messages._

**[2:06am]** _I’m worried for him._

**[2:07am]** _What if he’s hurt?_

**[2:07am]** **_business meeting?_**

**[2:08am] _flat bat?_**

**[2:08am] _im sure hes fine_**

**[2:09am] _hes a big guy he can take care of himself_**

**[2:09am]** _It cannot be. Father always informs me of such things. There must be a reason why he failed to contact me. I’m afraid, Aragorn._

**[2:10am] _hes fine_**

**[2:11am] _youll see_**

**[2:11am] _go to sleep_**

**[2:11am]** _No, Aragorn_

**[2:11am] _go to sleep_**

 

Legolas sent a few more messages to his friend—messages Aragorn either ignored or missed, having fallen back to sleep once more. Legolas screamed in frustration and paced the length of the lounge once more. He gnawed on his thumbnail and cast one last fleeting look at the front door.

It stayed stubbornly shut.

His heart heavy, Legolas tromped up the stairs and crept into his father’s bedroom. His hand clenched around the door knob as he inhaled the familiar scent of his father. Legolas slid under the sheets, and like his heart, he sank into the mattress.

The darkness, vast in his father’s absence, engulfed him as he awaited sleeplessly all night long for Thranduil’s return.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aragorn's sleepy typos:
> 
> [1] fuck you  
> [2] you woke me up


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been a while since I've updated. Oops. This fic is nearing its end however, it's been a nice run and I will be posting newer Thrandolas works in the future. I thank you all for reading and leaving kudos and comments :)
> 
> Big thank you to my beta [NightHerald](https://archiveofourown.org/users/NightHerald)
> 
> There is some influence from Hannibal and Legolas is not a good role model. Really. It's no longer little childish actions like kicking under the table.  
>  _Warning:_ Vandalism, Body Shaming

.

.

.

 

The click was barely audible from Legolas’s position but he heard it nonetheless. He jumped out of the bed and leapt down the stairs, hands braced against the wall and the railing. Legolas skidded to a stop at the end of the hallway before his father had even taken off his shoes.

“Where have you—“ Legolas’s heart slammed against his ribcage and seemed to _stop_. He stared. Stared, and he wasn’t breathing, his head was spinning, no, maybe it was the room, the _Earth,_ _he wasn’t breathing_ —

“—send you over for lessons, just give me thirty minutes to—Legolas?”

Legolas snapped his mind back into his head but everything about Thranduil was _wrong_. His clothes had _no right_ to be rumpled, there was _no reason_ for Thranduil’s hair to seem as though it had undergone some harsh pulling, grabbing, tangling, the giddy smile on his face had _no place_ —there was absolutely _no way_ his father had spent the night away from home, just to return in the morning smelling like sex.

It was _wrong_.

It was wrong because Legolas had no— _What_ , his brain demanded, suddenly free of all other thoughts except one. _Had no_ part?

Bile rose to his throat and Legolas bolted. He ignored Thranduil’s worried calls and locked himself in the bathroom, heaving into the toilet bowl. After he emptied all the contents in his stomach, Legolas slumped onto the tiles, his legs splayed by his sides. It reeked of vomit but Legolas couldn’t find the strength to reach up and push the flush. (In more ways than one.) Instead, he rested his head against the toilet seat as choking sobs rattled his body.

 

.~.

 

He had never thought of himself as dirty. The lowest of the low. Unworthy of anyone’s attention, much less _love_. Legolas’s instructors must have noticed the eye bags he struggled, and failed, to cover up with make-up, and the way he drifted off during lessons. Somehow, Legolas couldn’t bring himself to care.

After all, his dearest father was too busy attending to his _lover_. And what was Legolas? An ungrateful son who wished to deny his father happiness because of his own unthinkable perversions.

Legolas clenched his fists, his nails dug into the skin of his palm. He barely flinched when they drew blood. He had to flush out all those impure thoughts. He had to. Legolas let out an anguished scream, and his hands reached up to pull at the ends of his hair. He had to, but he didn’t want to. Yes, he was _sick_ , but for the love of god, Legolas _didn’t want to_.

He _loved_ his father.

Legolas wondered how he did not realise his feelings earlier. Aragorn had gone on and on about his ‘unhealthy obsession’ yet Legolas had always denied it. It had to be bloody obvious. It must have been. Did _Thranduil_ know? Legolas groaned at the thought and felt the ache in his heart increase in intensity.

He had to speak to Aragorn, or he was going to go out of his fucking mind.

 

.~.

 

_\--finally get over your daddy complex! I’ll be here for you, mate._

Oh. _Oh_.

Aragorn had not understood after all. He had only scratched the surface of Legolas’s feelings.

He was alone in this—Aragorn couldn’t be there for him if he didn’t fucking _understand_ —and Legolas did not know what the hell to do.

 

.~.

 

It was difficult. Suppressing his thoughts and biting his tongue whenever Thranduil returned home with another slightly giddy smile on his face. Legolas badly wanted to slam his father against the wall and _rage_ at him, tug those long silver-blond locks and bite into that long smooth neck. He wanted to leave _marks_ that would linger for days so that everyone knew to _stay the fuck away_ because his father was _his_.

Legolas wanted to shred Bard’s skin apart and watch as he convulsed in agony while the devil bled to death for touching what was off limits. Did devils bleed? Oh, Legolas _wanted, wanted, wanted_.

It was difficult. He felt like he was going to burst.

 

.~.

 

It was only in his dreams that he acted on his desires. Savoured the look on Bard’s face while he sank into the depths of endless blackness—that raw fear of helplessness and revelation of utter defeat. In those dreams, Legolas laughed and laughed and laughed—a god in the hell he created; his father chained to him like a slave, so very beautiful.

They weren’t much, but they helped make life day by day more manageable.

 

.~.

 

Expressions of anger were not an act much longer. They slid onto his face so naturally and easily Elrohir joked—maybe just a little bit serious—that he could easily kill the auditions for a new villain in a superhero movie or something along those lines.

It was a compliment in their eyes.

Legolas saw it differently; he knew there was something wrong with him. He mused that perhaps the term ‘see red’ was not only figurative after all, for he kept seeing bright red blood spewed in his dreams. He started to wonder whether the same could be said for ‘seeing green’ but then he thought that the red probably covered it all.

Legolas took a sip of water and sunk into a foldable chair. He revised the notes he acquired from his classes while half-listening to the twins’ chatter around him. Their words flew like rapid-fire as they discussed the roles they were planning on auditioning for, excitement clear in their speech. Legolas rolled his eyes and mouthed the words as he read, locking the knowledge into his brain, when the twins turned to a topic—or rather, person—Legolas loathed with all his heart. Elladan spoke of how proud he was that Tilda had learnt so much from their father and how her efforts were rewarded with a small role in a commercial—her on-screen debut.

“Maybe our student here will get a role soon too,” Elrohir said, nudging his brother with a sharp elbow. “That’ll show our family’s expertise at training even the most hopeless cases.” The wide grin on his face told Legolas that he was only teasing.

“You’re just jealous I am more talented in other areas,” Legolas shot back, annoyed. His annoyance however had nothing to do with Elrohir’s words, but rather at a memory of a much too familiar car in the parking lot. He had wondered what Bard’s business was with his father that day—his thoughts had _definitely_ not drifted to dirty sex in the office, heavens forbid—but the truth didn’t make Legolas feel any better.

He had much rather hear news of Tilda Bowman falling into ruins than her successes.

(Successes that couldn’t be truly _hers_.)

Legolas stood violently, the chair crashed into the ground from the force. His notes crinkled in his grip. “I am tired,” he said, ignoring the squawks of protests. “I’m going home.”

The key-ring felt so heavy in his pocket. Legolas stopped at the door to the stairs leading up to the office building and glared at Bard’s dingy old vehicle. He knew where all the blind spots of the surveillance cameras were.

It was so easy.

So awfully easy to scratch _FUCK YOU_ into the side of the car.

It was even easier to fake ignorance when Thranduil returned home hours later complaining about nasty little buggers and vandals. So easy to pretend. It didn’t even matter when the twins messaged Legolas three weeks later about a short cancellation of acting lessons because they were cast in supporting roles of a TV series. The training had been ingrained in him and it was suddenly just _so fucking easy_.

 

.~.

 

“It’s different.”

Legolas dropped into a split and jerked to a stop at Galadriel’s musing. His lungs cried out for oxygen while his body whined in exhaustion.

“You,” Galadriel chewed on her bottom lip as she contemplated, “you’re different.”

 _She knows_. It was an alarming thought that flitted past Legolas. He curled his legs towards his body protectively. He wondered what she must have seen in him—the burning, perverse desire for his father, or the bloodthirsty urge to _crush_ the devil’s head like a grape, or _both_? No matter, she knew _something_ —Legolas was sure of it.

“Really?” he asked, keeping his tone flippant and casual. His hair, tied up in a high ponytail to keep out of his face, laid limp over his right shoulder and Legolas twirled the end around an index finger. “I didn’t notice.”

“I sense anger and disorder—chaotic… _madness_. There’s aggression in your jumps and your strokes are harder and faster, it’s lacking the grace and fluidness this routine requires,” Galadriel explained. Her expression was troubled and Legolas focused on his breathing. She approached him with the soft _swish_ of her dress and kneeled to his level. Galadriel looked at him with eyes soft and gentle, similar to those of his mother in his memories, and Legolas felt _so much pain_. “Is there anything troubling you?”

 _Yes_. “No,” he replied, and Legolas gave nothing away.

Galadriel stared for a few good moments before breaking eye contact, apparently convinced from the breath of relief she released. “Very well. It is high time you’ve broke away from your mother’s style and found your own.” She stood and smoothed the folds of her dress, holding out a hand for Legolas to take. When they were both securely on their feet, Galadriel patted him on a shoulder and smirked, “This routine is useless to you now. I will have another choreographed for the competition.” Both glanced at the calendar hanging on the wall beside the door. “Six weeks,” she said with the tilt of an eyebrow, “I will be increasing our contact hours. I hear Elrond’s kids have cancelled your acting classes?”

Legolas nodded.

“Good.” Galadriel smiled. “You thought practice was tough before? It’s only going to get harder. Rest well tonight and I will see you again tomorrow.”

 

.~.

 

Legolas was walking down the stairs with a towel around the back of his neck when his father returned. He tugged on his hair tie furiously and it snapped, hitting Legolas across the fingers and forcing a wince out of him.

“Dinner’s in the fridge,” Legolas grumbled. “I’m going to take a dip in the pool.”

Thranduil shook out his hair and tossed his blazer onto the couch. “This late?” he asked, moving into the kitchen where he stuck his head into the fridge, pulling out the plate of food to be microwaved. Legolas shrugged, unconcerned that his father wasn’t able to see him. Like he _cared_. Thranduil was more interested in the devil anyhow. Legolas was near the glass door leading to their private pool when Thranduil poked his head out from the kitchen door. “No skinny dipping.”

“When have I ever?”

Legolas slammed the door shut and upon reflecting on it, he cursed under his breath. Was he too curt? He was slipping. Heart racing, Legolas glanced back over his shoulder to see his father’s reaction—ah. His father wasn’t there. He didn’t realise.

Legolas turned back and leant against the cool glass. His hands were shaking. A short laugh erupted from his throat as he stared at his hands. _Why_. Legolas clenched his fists. _Why must his father_ —

_No._

He must not think that way. He flung his towel across the space, quickly tossed his shirt onto the floor, and Legolas ran, diving into the pool with a huge splash. He let himself sink down, his eyes tightly shut, until he reached the bottom.

So dark. He could not hear anything else but the thumping of his heart. He felt his lungs screaming and he exhaled, peeling back heavy eyelids. It was so dark. He focused on the bubbles rising to the surface like a chaotic tornado. It hurt. It hurt so _fucking_ much.

Legolas broke to the surface with a shuddering gasp, hacking his lungs out with coughs. _Ah_ , he thought, _I’m so pathetic_. Floating on the water, Legolas stared at the starless city sky. When was he ever going to come to terms about the fact that he was _replaced_ , so fucking easily, forgotten and replaced.

_If only his father had never met Bard!_

Legolas slapped his hand against the water in rage and sank down into the depths again. Once, twice, thrice, he released chaos into the darkness, but it was never enough.

Nothing ever seemed to be enough anymore.

 

.~.

 

“Man, did time fly!” Tauriel exclaimed while staring at the calendar hanging on the wall. Legolas paused in his warm-ups to look at his instructor. “It’s been nearly a year since your debut single was released, did you know? Of course you did. Anyways,” she said, clapping her hands together, “there’s been talk of another album from you. It’s a good chance to set off your career. Have you tried composing before?”

“No,” Legolas replied, “but I have the dance—“

“Yes, yes, I am aware. Don’t slack off, finish your warm-ups,” Tauriel reprimanded. “I am not pressuring you to but it might be a way to relieve a little bit of stress—writing down your thoughts and turning them into lyrics, poetry. It will be lovely to have at least one song composed by you in your new album, your fans want to _feel_ you, do you understand me?”

“I don’t know how to compose.”

“You’ll learn, that’s what I’m here for.”

“You’re my vocal—“

“I’m also a composer,” Tauriel said, “I’m not only good at _one_ thing. In fact, I’m offended you think that.”

“Sorry.”

“You’re not sorry at all, I can see it on your face.” Tauriel rolled her eyes and Legolas smirked cheekily. “Anyways, don’t be too worried about it. I know you want to focus on dance but I’m just reminding you of the other aspects of your career. You’re not _only_ a dancer, Legolas. I want you to write, a word or two a day, I care not, release some of those pent up emotions. I want to see some of your progress at the end of the week. That’s all I ask. Good?”

“Got you.” Legolas looked down at his hands and said, “I look stressed?”

“What?” Tauriel asked, visibly startled. She looked at his serious expression and furrowed her eyebrows, switching from her initial intention to joke to a truthful response. “I wouldn’t quite say that. There’s something…I cannot put my finger onto it but I often recommend composing as a stress reliever, are you worried about it?”

Legolas clenched his jaw. It was him. He was different. _Fuck,_ as if he didn’t already know that! Galadriel had noticed, now Tauriel too. Did his father?

_(No)_

Was that why he sought the devil’s company over Legolas’s?

_(No)_

Did his father suspect him to be _wrong_?

_(Oh please god no)_

Hadn’t he hidden it well? Legolas forced a smile—perfect—and clasped his shaking hands behind his back.

“No. Just asking.”

“Great.” Tauriel clapped her hands together and nodded. “Now, let me hear you.”

He was slipping. He must fix the cracks. Where was his mask again? Elladan…Elrohir…Legolas hit the wrong pitch, remembering the twins’ excited chatter. They chose _her_ over him, they _abandoned_ him. Tauriel yelled, but his distracted mind barely registered her words. His father too…why was everyone so fucking obsessed with the devil and his wretched spawns?

 _Fuck_.

If only they would all—

just

_disappear._

And wouldn’t that be bloody fan-fucking-tastic? Legolas laughed, he cackled, he howled. He laughed and laughed and laughed and _blink_ —oh. He was standing in a hallway, his backpack slung over one shoulder, the studio three floors away.

What time was it? Legolas pulled out his phone from his back pocket and he had lost time—two hours of it. The phone slipped from his grasp and Legolas pulled at his scalp, a twisted, feral eyed expression on his face. Mad.

“Mr. Oropherion’s son!”

Legolas snapped out of his daze, eyes darting wildly left and right trying to focus, to pinpoint the owner of the voice. They landed on _her_ and Legolas saw red. Red like the packets of gummy snakes and chips she held in her hands, red like the clothes on her back, red like the ribbon in her hair.

He wanted to _hurt_.

“My Da really likes Mr. Oropherion and says I should try to be friends with you. What are you doing?” She looked down at the ground beside his shoes and said, “Your phone’s on the floor.” The devil’s youngest spawn chomped on a few piece of chips and when Legolas did not react, she asked, “Aren’t you going to pick it up?”

Legolas slowly released his grip on his hair and smiled, thin and cruel. “Aren’t _you_ going to stop inhaling all those calories? I shall give you a piece of advice.” He stalked towards her, bending at his hip to look her in the eye. “At the rate you’re eating, you’ll be as fat as a rotten pig and do you really think _my_ father or _anyone_ will want you anymore? _No_.” Legolas relished terror reflected in her widening eyes. “They’ll drop your pathetic body and you’ll be forgotten within a _second_. Your devil of a father can fuck _my_ father all he wants and _nothing will change_. You will be _nothing_.”

With that, Legolas marched away, remembering to sweep up his phone, feeling vindicated and light.


End file.
